The Rabid Dog
by A Dwimor
Summary: Dumbledore keeps his own counsel, The Dark Lord is reclaiming his mind, and a rabid dog does not recognize the hands of it's masters. A sort of Severus mentors Harry fic. No fluff. No slash. Grey leaning Harry, logical Harry, Grey Severus Snape.
1. Chapter 1

Severus Snape rubbed away the spit and blood on his face on the moss beneath him. He closed his eyes, concentrating, allowing himself the luxury of whispering the words he needed instead of just thinking them. His body went limp as he lost consciousness, concealed behind hasty wards woven into the thicket shielding him from view.

...

Albus Dumbledore stared at the man unconscious on the couch before him, pale skin bruised, dark hair in clumps and mats, thick with blood. His own or someone else's, the great wizard did not know, which was the reason he had not yet tended to the younger's state beyond healing his serious injuries. Blood magic may have been labeled a dark art, but it was damn useful. If there was some form of genetic matter from their enemies clinging to his body, even beneath the boy's fingernails, those samples could be used, and the more they had from an individual the more powerful their effect.

Abruptly, Severus startled awake and scrabbled back, breath coming in gasps, a high whine issuing from his throat , his knees rolling up to his chin as one hand shot out palm forward in threat, the other upwards and close to his body to protect his face and neck.

Albus wordlessly cast a charm to calm him. Slowly his breathing evened, and his black eyes resumed their normal tunneled state. A light press from his own mind confirmed to him that the boy's shields were successfully shuttered. Severus loosened his muscles, and scooched his back further upright with a grunt and a scowl.

"Now damn couch ruined. Feck!" Severus growled, a peculiar twang to his voice, like he was having a hard time suppressing an accent.

"Well I wasn't going to just lay you on the stone floor my boy," Dumbledore replied, mildly. "Is the blood you apparently bathed in only yours, or did you exsanguinate someone?"

"Some mine, some not" Severus gingerly relaxed back into his couch and bared his teeth in an unholy grin. "Yaxley lost at least a pint."

Dumbledore sighed, ignoring the comment, and got down to business. "Your shields are subpar. Had I tried to break into your mind immediately after I woke you, you would have been completely vulnerable."

Snape winced and closed his eyes. "And what if those shields will no longer be so important . . ."

Dumbledore frowned. "Yet you escaped with your life. This tells me you are either extraordinarily lucky or he still counts you a follower. Which is it?"

Snape's eyes snapped open, his eyebrow raised. "I only wished to know your reaction." He paused, avoiding the older man's eyes. "After . . . he made his decision regarding my loyalty he bid me come back in a week's time, after I had been 'patched up and given a pat on the head by the slimy old bastard,' His words." Severus flicked his eyes up briefly to meet the headmaster's. "How long have I been . . . convalescing?"

Dumbledore huffed. "Tom is nothing if not considerate. Barely a day. Only The two of us, Minerva, and Hagrid remain in the castle. You have three more days to recuperate." Dumbledore stood, hideous orange robes slightly muffling the cracking of his joints "I will leave you to rest until then before we speak further. About the meeting, and the future." Dumbledore gazed down at the man contemplatively.

Severus clenched his jaw and shifted his neck to keep the man in sight, the wizard's silent regard setting him on edge.

Dumbledore sighed, breaking out of his thoughts. He patted the younger wizard on the shoulder as he turned to go, ignoring the flinch it elicited - that it _always_ elicited.

"I would offer to convey you to your room where you would be more comfortable, but I know you would just spit fire at me, so in the interest of not treating you like a child and remaining un-singed I take my leave, my boy. Just remember to preserve some of that blood," Dumbledore said as he stepped into the floo.

* * *

"Figg can't take him."

"Who will mind him then?"

"I don't know! He's your dratted nephew!"

"Don't take that tone with me!"

"I'll take whatever tone I like! This is my house, dammit!'

There was a snort.

"I might. . . Have an idea."

Harry's breathing came in short sputters as he tried to control his anxiety. An altercation with Vernon always made his adrenaline run rampant, causing his body to shake, and the strength to leave his limbs - he wondered if he even had adrenal glands left - his anxiety would leap into his throat and choke him, stirring his fear into a froth to suffocate him, even as a powerless, sickly sort of rage spread his chest like a blood eagle.

In this state, the slightest noise made him feel like death could strike at any moment. Honestly, being locked in the tiny cupboard was almost a relief.

According to what he had heard after Vernon had thrown him into the cupboard, Grunnings was sponsoring his uncle on a business trip to ngthe continent. While Petunia and Dudley were going too, there was no way in hell the were going to pay for Harry as well. Apparently though they had nowhere to stash him during their absence.

Normally something like that wouldn't worry him too much, as he doubted they would put him with someone truly despicable, as any odd stories that leached into the neighborhood would reflect badly on them. Placing him with old wrinkled Mr. Patterson at the end of the street for example would brook too much comment, considering the entire neighborhood warned their children against venturing to his cul-de-sac. Someone might accuse them of being neglectful . . . !

...

"He truly believes you are still his?"

"Yes," Snape muttered, shifting uncomfortably, still not completely healed from his first ordeal.

"Why?" his master demanded.

"Because he _wants_ to believe it. He does not think anyone would ever have the bravery necessary to betray him after pledging to follow him. Because of who he is, and what he can do, his position, and the power he holds. . ."

"And?"

"What."

"What is the other reason? That other reason he believes you to be true? I see it in your eyes, yet you refuse to say it. Speak!"

"In his own twisted way, I believe he loves me, as much as he is capable of it. . . No, I see you scoffing, it is true. Not as a lover, do not mistake me," Snape curls his lip in disgust, "had that been so I would have begged never to go back . . . He believes he sees himself in me, and it is why he loves me. I am his mirror."

Dumbledore stood, removing himself physically from the conversation, his steps taking him to Fawkes, asleep on his perch.

"Have some refreshments my boy," he murmured, as a tea set popped into being on his desk behind him, complete with an extra bottle. Firewhiskey, it looked like. Snape let his hair fall into his face, hiding his eyes as he reached for the alcohol, not bothering with a glass.


	2. Chapter 2

Severus clutched his mark as it burned. He didn't know how to label what he was feeling as he collected the robes and mask he had left enthroned on a rickety wooden chair in his parent's old bedroom.

A flaming rage spread through his veins while he simultaneously resisted the urge to sob. He grabbed a leather case of potions, resized it, and put it into his pocket. He stood still for a moment, organizing his thoughts, then occluded his mind. His breath grew steadier, his black eyes sharpened and his shoulders drew back. Preparations complete, he put his hand to the mark that marred his arm and disapparated with only a whisper of noise.

The Dark Lord had yet to relocate from his muggle father's estate, and the wards that engulfed Severus on his arrival spoke of some permanence to the arrangement. Despite the building's rundown state, it still struck an impressive outline on the hill on which it was built, the neglect of the grounds adding ambience rather than just being the proof of a poor groundskeeper.

The overgrown grass was wet with dew and it soaked his boots and cloak as he went up the hill to the manor. He could smell evidence of the occasional medicinal plant grown wild, crushed beneath his boot heel, releasing its aroma. Apparently the old gardens were located in the front of the house rather than the back.

As Severus drew closer he threw his awareness forward, assessing the warding on the building itself, and hoping to sense the life signs of those within. Wormtongue was the only being he felt, besides Nagini. This did not bode well. He was being summoned alone.

It was a new spell he was employing, a sort of fore-sight. Forward knowledge. Casting his mind ahead. This spell, he had no intention of ever revealing to Voldemort. Nor Dumbledore for that matter. He believed it to be a relative of the other mind magics he was employing.

Severus drew to a halt in front of the grand double doors of Riddle manor, his rune covered death-mask only inches from the peeling wood. He sent his presence forward to be known, almost a magical sort of challenge; daring and unnecessary, as the wards would have already heralded his arrival. To change his old behavior and patterns now, however, would only reveal him. New found maturity and self possession, though, would not be unexpected. He'd best remember to employ them.

He occluded once more as the doors opened, viciously shoving down the rage bubbling up his throat.

...

Nagini lifted her head as her master took a sharp breath. Being what she was, she did not sense the things he sensed. Voldemort raised his chin and a smile played on his lips.

He twitched his fingers, and the doors of the manor and the great hall opened with a slam. From his seat on the dais he had created he was presented with the view of the Deatheater he had summoned, stock still at the other end of the house. The wind whipped his black robes about him, his feet were spread, his chin high, but no wand drawn. A dramatic entrance.

Ah, but he had missed this one. His favorite.

"Well, boy?" Voldemort's voice was piercing as it rang through the house, "are you going to cross the threshold or do I have to invite you, like I would a vampire?"

Severus crossed the threshold and stalked noiselessly to just before the dais. He knelt before his lord, then raised his head. His eyes found Peter Pettigrew, cowering in a corner.

A faint ammonia smell filled the room, and Peter shifted to his animagus form, skittering away to hide underneath a slender glass encased bookshelf. Severus' attention caught for a moment on some of the items within, two ancient looking tomes, a scorched cracked golden cup, and an odd little box, engraved with runes.

Severus turned his attention back to the Dark Lord, wary of his reaction to his entrance and the dismissal of the rodent.

A smirk was the only response. His presumptuous display had been allowed.

"You look to be recovered, Sseveruss," Voldemort whispered, sibilant, caressing his name, "I am glad you came so quickly to my call. I believe a full report on Dumbledore's movements for the last ten years is what I am now due."

"Where should I begin, my lord?"

"The beginning."

...

"It is heartening to know that Dumbledore's influence in the ministry has recently become somewhat tenuous," Voldemort murmured. "And that some are concerned that there may be ulterior motives behind his decisions as headmaster. I have new hope for the intelligence of the wizarding populace."

They lapsed into silence, business apparently concluded. Severus told himself not to fidget. Abruptly Voldemort rose to his feet. Severus forced himself not to move as the Dark Lord flowed towards him, his snake watching his every move behind him.

He flinched though, when his Lord's hand shot out and grabbed his chin. With his other hand he removed Severus's mask, and dropped it to the ground, where it shattered. A pulse of energy lapped for a moment at their feet.

Voldemort's claw-like fingers dug into Severus' jaw as the man stared into his eyes, burrowing into his mind. Carefully curated memories were scythed from him. He allowed himself as he once was to flow forth, and drown his Lord. Hatred, fear, a desire to prove himself. Envy. Love, of a sort. Belief in their cause. Belief in him.

After what seemed like aeons Voldemort unclenched his fingers, one by one, and finally released him. He turned and made his way to the window, angled slightly so that he could see his servant's face.

Severus swallowed, his forehead creased, fighting against a tide of anxiety and the pounding in his head from the damage his master had caused.

"Muffilato. It has come to my attention, Severuss," Voldemort began, his verbal spell an indication of the secrecy of the conversation, "that I am not what I once was. And . . . after destroying an item that used to be quite dear to me, it has come to my attention that I have the means to correct that fact."

The Dark Lord turned to face him. "I will need your assistance, with this endeavor."

...

Harry crept out of his cupboard, carefully pocketing the bent piece of wire he had used to pull the lock on the cupboard. If they were going to keep him under the stairs until they left for their trip it was definitely something he needed to keep on him, even if he only used it when he absolutely needed it.

Now was probably one of those times. If he didn't want an infection, anyway. He quietly padded into the living room to the small cabinet that held Vernon and Petunia's liquor.

He unlocked the cabinet with his little piece of wire, retrieved a rather large bottle of vodka, and shut the door. He held his breath for a moment, listening for the thud of feet or the creak of a floorboard, then quickly unscrewed the top of the bottle, and shoved his sleeve up his arm, revealing a bloody cut on his forearm; an accident from earlier, while he had been gardening.

Harry gulped a breath, then poured a bit of the alcohol on the wound. He moved over to the sink, turned the faucet on to a quiet trickle, took a couple generous swigs from the bottle, then filled it back to it's original point.

Barely a minute later he had locked himself back into the cupboard under the stairs. He could have went and dug up a first aid kit from the hall bathroom, but it gave him a sort of petty pleasure using the expensive alcohol Vernon liked to chug.


	3. Chapter 3

Harry sat in the dirt under an open window, straining to hear the news broadcast Petunia and Vernon were watching. Voldemort was back, surely some sign of the upheaval or increase in destruction would leach through to the muggle world?

His letters from his friends were disgustingly devoid of any information, Ron's was a short, banal blurb about quidditch and his petty squabbles with his siblings. If Voldemort hadn't been fucking resurrected in front of him at the end of the school year Harry may have even cared.

Hermione's letter was five pages, advising him to keep his head down, do his homework, stay safe, and keep the peace with his relatives.

Ha.

He still didn't know where he'd be going while the Dursleys were on the continent, either. He'd suggested the Weasleys a few days previous, but had been shot down by an entirely too pleased Vernon, who informed him they already had arrangements for him.

Now there were only four days before the trip. He'd been booted out the door to weed the flower beds, cut the grass, clean the windows, and wash Vernon's car after he had purposely mucked up his inside chores just enough to get Petunia to banish him from the house for the day. Working outside was always better, even in the heat. His relatives tended to only inspect and critique the end product of his outside tasks, instead of the entire procedure. Gods forbid they break a sweat in the summer sun.

He had saved a small patch of weeds under the window in case he needed to look busy as he rested and listened to the telly. He could have finished his chores an hour before, but it was better to be safe than efficient. Plausible deniability was always a must.

He would only be assigned more labour if he finished quickly anyway, and why work harder when you didn't need to? The Dursleys were going to find fault in his job regardless.

A rustle of grass made Harry slowly lean forward and start weeding again.

"Hey freak! Watcha doin? Picking flowers for your boyfriend?" Dudley's voice roared.

Harry shot a look at him out of the corners of his eyes. Piers and another large boy stood next to Dudley, all three grinning like idiots. He hoped this wasn't going to turn into a stage play.

"What's the matter Harry? Somebody bite your tongue?" Piers laughed. "Don't have a boyfriend," Harry snapped, without looking up.

"Oooooo Cedric, CeeeeeEEDRIIC, I'm sorry Cedric!" Dudley mocked. "I hear you in the middle of the night calling for him."

Harry went pale. So, the content of his nightmares weren't a secret? He knew he sometimes made some noise, from his uncle tossing him around to wake him, but he never realized he spoke, just that he had a tendency to scream.

He threw down his tools and made his way to the far side of the garden, by the shed. He could hear the other boys cackling together, but he didn't turn. A minute later he was relieved to hear the two neighbor boys taking their leave, citing their rumbling stomachs.

Harry's relief was short lived, though, when he noticed Dudley digging up and thrashing his Aunt's favorite flowers. Six inverted petals to each flower the color of flame, with tiny dark spots. He'd never been allowed to even weed around them much less water them. Petunia always said he would only kill them, and so took care of them herself.

"Hey! Dudley STOP!" Harry screeched, rushing over. He knew Petunia would have a royal fit and blame her nephew for the act.

"Make me, freak!"

Harry damned the consequences and ran at Dudley, trying to wrestle the dessicated plants away from him. He had a vague hope that if he got the flowers, he could wish them to repair themselves. Dudley shoved Harry backwards, and he landed in the dirt with a thud.

"Dudley please, give me the flowers,' Harry pleaded, changing tactics, "I'll trade you a favor! I'll magic some cigs from the corner shop for you to smoke!"

"I don't need a scrawny queer to steal my smokes for me!"

"Yeah? I don't know why, when you're so fat you probably can't even fit through the door," Harry snapped.

"Tell that to your whore mum, FREAK! I bet she spent a lot of time on a street corner!" Dudley screeched.

Harry's vision darkened as his blood boiled and he leapt up at his cousin, scrabbling and punching at him frantically. All he knew in the moment was that he wanted the other boy to hurt. They tussled for a moment, Dudley shocked at his bravery. A shot to the nose finally connected and Dudley squealed like a pig.

The noise brought him to his senses and he leapt away from Dudley, who held his nose as a trickle of blood rolled across one of his hands. He glared at Harry, who was standing stiff and hunched a few feet away, fear in his eyes.

"Dudley, I'm sorry! I didn't mean it! I'm sorry!" Harry gasped. Dudley just smirked. "Dudley please -"

"DAAAAAAAAAAD!" Dudley roared.

Harry's stomach dropped to his shoes.

* * *

Severus cracked into being in the middle of his living room. His head was pounding, but his breaths were calm and steady as he made his way to the kitchen, stripping off his death eater robes as he went, banishing them upstairs.

He opened the under sink cupboard, pulled out a bottle of the shittiest muggle whiskey money could buy, and took it to his kitchen table, accidentally kicking at the shitty romance novel that the uneven leg of his table rested on.

He sat down in his chair, unscrewed the lid of his bottle, and started to drink. As the alcohol took effect, he slowly began rearranging his mind, reversing elements of his occlumency, recovering himself as he was and not as the Dark Lord wished him to be.

The Dark Lord had dabbled in many dark rituals. At least one of them had affected him adversely, or so he believed. That he had admitted such to Severus himself was shocking. Even more shocking was his request for help. . . order for help.

Asking for help and admitting a weakness in the same breath. It put Severus on edge. This was a different dark lord from the one he had first served years ago. An unknown quantity. Unknowns got people killed.

Severus unclenched his jaw and tried to calm his twitching muscles. He stood, grabbed a towel off his clothes drying rack in the kitchen, and made his way upstairs to the shower.

He spent the next hour scrubbing his skin under scalding water, his neck and his jaw receiving the most attention. The water had run cold by the time he stepped out. He summoned some loose clothing from a closet with a wave of his hand, put it on, and made his way back to his rotgut muggle whisky, despite the report he still needed to deliver.

Dumbledore could fucking wait.

_"You always were brilliant, Severuss. What spells have you created in my absence?"  
_

_"You flatter me, my lord. I have created many. Of what type do you wish to know?"_

_Voldemort's hand fluttered across his shoulders, and he completely changed the subject. "You grew into a man while I was gone. A handsome one."_

_Severus scoffed before he could stop himself_

_His muscles twitching from the resulting crucio, he stood back up and levelled his eyes at the Dark Lord's feet, fear shooting through his belly. This was an unexpected situation. An unknown._

_"Your features may be harsh, boy, but you have strength and intelligence. Ingenuity and Power. You are more than the pureblood fops that pledged themselves to the cause in droves. You clawed yourself up from the dirt and made yourself a Prince. They will never be able to understand what you overcame to become First among them._

* * *

Harry jerked away violently as the cupboard door whipped open and light slashed at his eyes.

"Up boy! Now!" Vernon barked."NOW!"

Harry uncurled and hurled himself through the door, his uncle slamming it closed behind him. Heart pounding he focused on the wall, not daring to look up.

Vernon proceeded to list off his daily tasks, more than usual, all to be completed by day ́s end. His litany was interspersed with broad gestures and menacing body language, especially when describing the punishment to come should he fail. He dared a glare upward, and was rewarded with a cuff to the side of the head.

He stumbled but regained his balance quickly, resuming his defiance. This earned him a strike to the face that he knew would bruise and a trip to the floor, agitating his other hurts. Vernon turned, and stomped back upstairs. Harry, from his place on the trashy blue laminate, twisted his neck to look at the time. 4:30 in the morning. He at least could be pleased by the fact that Vernon's sleep had been disturbed just to get him up.


	4. Chapter 4

Severus woke with a start, and found himself sprawled on his couch. Pounding on his front door matched the pounding in his head as he rolled off his makeshift bed and scrambled to his feet.

The wards around his property had not been triggered, so the person assaulting his door was not a wix with ill intent. Armed with this knowledge, he ripped it open, and squinted in the light of the sun.

"This one, Vernon! This one!" Petunia hissed, radiating an odd glee as they pulled up to a shabby row house, grey paint peeling, stoop crooked, and heavily cobwebbed.

Harry was hauled out of the car by a meaty fist grabbing the back of his neck, and he joined his trunk on the doorstep. Vernon scurried back to the car, engine still running for a quick getaway. What was once possibly the house doorbell was two wires protruding from a gaping hole in the siding. Petunia eyed it in disgust, and kicked at the door instead.

Harry heard a crash. Heart in his throat at the thought of this unknown, he turned to his aunt.

"Please, why can't I stay at home? I don't care if you lock me in the damn bathroom. Or I could pay for a room at the Leaky Cauldron! Please!" He begged.

"Shut up."

Desperate, Harry turned to threats. "I'll run away and tell Dumbledore you abandoned me! I'll go to the police!"

His mind was full of thoughts of how to break the lock on his trunk to get his wand so he wouldn't be left defenseless with a stranger for weeks when the door was ripped open. A hunched figure flinched back at the sunlight, face hidden by lank black hair.

A second later Harry was hit with a smell he identified as stale whiskey as a terrifyingly familiar voice hit an unfamiliar register.

"TUNEY! What the actual _fuck —" _

"_Snape." _Petunia sneered, looking him up and down, apparently not impressed with what she was seeing. "I see you haven't changed much."

"You still look like a horse. What the FUCK are you doing here?" Snape growled.

Petunia took a nervy step back.

"We have no one to watch the boy. His trunk is on the curb, we'll be gone to the continent, he needs a place to stay, you were the only option," Petunia rushed, knowing that if she didn't she would miss the opportunity to leave the boy. "He doesn't eat much, and he needs a strong hand. We can't take him with us."

Snape's eyes widened in shock and his stomach dropped to his boots as he finally noticed the teenager hiding peering around his aunt.

"You _cannot _leave him HERE." Snape hissed, horror clenching his gut as he saw the questions running through the boy's mind.

Petunia ignored him, turning without another word, and ran back to the car. Vernon gunned the engine, sneering at Snape as they roared off.

Harry flinched as Snape slammed the door. He turned slowly, shaking hands hovering around his own face like he wasn't sure who he wanted to strangle, himself or the teenager staring at him.

Snape decided to scream, instead, a wordless shriek at the top of his lungs that made Harry leap backwards, ramming his back into a bookcase lining the hallway.

They were both shaking now. Snape lunged in the boy's direction, and Harry flinched, eyes closed. He started at the sound of breaking glass, but the blow he was expecting didn't come. He opened his eyes for just long enough to see that the casualty instead was a little figurine that had been on a shelf above his head.

Footsteps passed him. He waited a couple of seconds, then cautiously reopened his eyes. He was alone in the hallway. He heard movement from what was apparently the kitchen, but he didn't go to investigate, just stayed stock still, back glued to the bookcase.

He hadn't been invited to venture into the rest of the house and he sure as hell wasn't going to be brave, not around a fully trained and completely unstable adult wizard.

Three calming draughts later Severus went back to the hallway, and stared at the teenager hunched over himself protectively, chest heaving, green green green damnable green eyes wide, pupils the size of a pin, one side of his face marred by a fantastic bruise.

"I didn't just give you that bruise. . . Did I?" Severus asked. He felt rather like he was watching himself from a distance, reactions delayed by about ten seconds. He needed to remember to breathe. Now he was conscious of breathing. Stop that. No, stop _noticing_ you're breathing, don't stop _breathing. _

The boy finally managed to give a little shake of his head, and Severus sighed in relief.

"Good. I think . . . I just overdosed on . . . calming draught. I'm going to go back to sleep now . . ."

...

Harry watched as his professor stumbled through the doorway into a cramped little parlor, and collapsed onto a couch that looked as rough as he did. A slight snore a moment later told him the man was asleep.

Harry sighed in relief. He could run. . . to where though? He didn't even know where they were. He had sent his owl to Ron for the summer so a letter for help was out. His wand was locked in his school trunk.

Harry finally settled for The Devil He Apparently Didn't Know Much About and sat down on the floor with his back to the shelves, and pulled his knees to his chest. He clenched his fists and covered his ears. Maybe he could catch a nap.

Ha. Right.


End file.
